Bat Shit Cray
Aggravating Factors
1. This flight is delayed. It’s been moved up, back, then up again before changing gates twice.
2. The lead flight attendant is trying to become the first transgendered member of the Jersey Shore cast. Her crimson-dyed poof is an obvious attempt to distract from the Adam’s apple her neck scarf is safely concealing from this Carolina-bound set of passengers. Her Long Island accent is eliciting cackles from their drawl-laden windpipes.
3. As factor two put it “Loooooywd, it’s hawy back eeyah.” She hypothisizes that the elevated temperature may be the result of “Loosin’ powwah awn da way innnnn..”
4. The Hispitalian fellow caddycornered to my rear cannot get enough of factor two’s humor bone piercing pitch. With his six-button henley undone to its maximum depth, his mocking reveals an obvious envy of the leg up she has on him in the Jersey Shore audition process. In this case that metaphoric “leg” is also a Imperial “foot.” She towers over his 5’3” frame (5’4” if you count the faux Beats headphones he sports at cruising altitude) as she hands him is “vokka soda.” He will later hit on her while disembarking, oblivious to the surprise he will find back in the hotel tonight. Upon discovery, he will decide he does not mind.
5. The backwoods hipster duo sitting around me have performed a strategic seat swapping maneuver, displaying Cracker-Barrel-golf-tea-triangle game master to end up with the pair of seats to my left. Checkmating me with Plaid Knight to Queen’s (overrated) seat 15B, they proceed to carry on a tune of howled insults leveled at both our city of departure and our destination.
6. I do not sense an odor, but the blonde bowl cut two rows back insists there is a stench a’waftin’. Upon second sniff and one look at her ill-proportioned glasses, I realize the wisdom of the middle school idiom about she who smelt it.
7. My stomach turns as I watch the twenty-something gentleman wearing a Masters Tournament embroidered sweater and a heart-tuggingly premature combover convincingly feign an interest in his homely girlfriend’s obsession with her dated issue of Us Weekly’s feature on Who Wore it Best: Golden Globes Edition.
8. While I’ve tried to neglect it as long as possible, the otherwise redeemable seeming woman seated beside me has a ticking time bomb strapped to her chest. While it has thus far lied dormant except for the few disconcerting noises it let out during the flight attendant’s pre-takeoff safety monologue, the infant she’s carrying is bound to explode at any moment due to the pen-misdirecting turbulence we’ve been epileptically gliding through since 20 yards out outside of LaGuardia. Thankfully he maturely chooses this hour to catch up on his beauty sleep. I decide to follow his lead, popping in silence blasting headphones to drown out the country hipsters’ discussion about whose hair is greasier (a sloppy draw in my opinion). But as I settle back into my cramped throne, I realize the infant has made a power play, stealing my right armrest with the grasp of his supple paw.
Admitting defeat, I slouch left and shut my eyes to block out the one lit cabin fixture, which is beaming down on Lady Combover’s obviously enthralling expose on the causes behind the Brand-Perry breakup. As she points out some certainly crucial tidbit to her earbud-plugged beaux, I squeeze shut my eyelids.
9. The baby awakes. He has shat himself. Infantile screeching ensues.
